Good Little Liars Page 11

  But now that Marlee was here at the exhibition, she wondered why Lidia or Ben had been worried about the turnout. Someone had just whispered that Clementine Andrews was in attendance, so not only was it a full house, but reporters were here, vying for an interview with Clementine about her views on the exhibition. A newspaper photographer walked around clicking away at small groups and writing down their names on a notepad. Marlee grabbed a drink as a bearded guy with a man-bun walked past bearing a tray full of glasses. She took a sip and grimaced. Chardonnay.

  Ben’s familiar face suddenly appeared through an opening in the crowd and she felt herself relax.

  He leaned forward and put his hand on the back of her arm. ‘Marlee, thanks so much for coming. Have you seen the art and photography?’

  ‘Can’t get to it for the crowd,’ said Marlee. ‘You throw quite a party.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. His eyes didn’t waver from her face. Outside the constraints of the office and amid the chatter and buzz of the crowd, Marlee allowed herself to feel a warm thrill of connection. It was exciting and disconcerting at the same time. She didn’t intend to get involved with Ben. He was too… she couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Honourable? Each time she had a conversation with him, she came away thinking about the world a little bit differently. He was so unjudgemental. So interested in differing points of view. Eventually he looked over her shoulder and smiled, lifting his hand towards someone approaching.

  ‘Clem! Thanks for coming. You’ve really raised the profile of this thing. I’m so grateful.’

  Marlee froze. From the corner of her eye, a small recognisable figure had come into view at her shoulder. Ben turned to Marlee to include her in the conversation.

  ‘Clem, I’d like you to meet my colleague, Marlee Maples. Marlee, this is Clementine Andrews.’ He looked from one to the other.

  Clementine grinned. ‘We went to school together. Hi Marleen – I can’t believe I’m running in to you too. I saw Emma Parsons yesterday. Feels like I’m in a time warp, except we’ve all got wrinkles and better fashion sense.’

  Marlee looked down at Clementine. She was wearing thick-soled lace-up yellow shoes, royal blue pants and an olive green long-sleeve t-shirt printed with the words I know I look tired. Fighting the Patriarchy is Exhausting. Marlee felt her head spinning. How was Ben on such close terms with a celebrity? Why hadn’t Emma mentioned catching up with Clementine?

  ‘Hi, Clementine. Wow. Your hair makes you look really different.’ Okay, so that was lame – after twenty-five years, the best she could do was comment on the woman’s hairstyle? It wasn’t as if she didn’t have an incredible career or a fascinating public profile to chat about. But it was hard to think of Clementine as anyone except the baby-faced rebel she hadn’t seen for twenty-five years.

  Clementine laughed. ‘Thanks. Nice to see that you’re a supporter of the arts.’

  Marlee felt a twinge of guilt. She was really only here under duress, pretending to be interested. She had an odd, discomforted sort of feeling. Maybe it was because only the kids you went to school with knew who you really were. There was no hiding behind a veneer of adult success. Clementine would see the truth.

  ‘So, what do you think, Clem?’ Ben gestured to the art on the walls.

  Clementine was swaying from side to side with her hands in her pockets and a grin on her face. ‘Great job. Some of it’s pretty decent! Have you seen the art, Marlee?’

  ‘I just got here actually – I’ll be interested to see it when the crowd finishes the wine and heads off.’

  Ben laughed. ‘Well, it will be lovely for you two to reconnect.’ He leaned forward, placing his hand on Marlee’s upper arm again. Marlee had a sudden urge to put her hand on his neck and pull him into a kiss. Christ. Not even remotely appropriate. Their fling had been accepted as a one-off night of madness, both of them turning up to work the following Monday and acting as if nothing had happened, although Ben had continued to be the perfect gentleman.

  Ting Ting Ting. Someone was tapping a spoon on a glass. Ben turned to stand next to Marlee and they faced the direction of the spoon tapper as the silence settled. His arm slid down and rested comfortably in the snug of her back – gently and politely. She shivered.

  A little old man in a colourful coat and mustard-coloured pants bounced out of the crowd and up onto a chair. He beamed at the crowd through his long grey beard.

  ‘Hi, everyone. Thanks for coming. I’m Rufus Lennox, one of the committee members of Artists for Peace. Amaya and Mika are talented artists and we’re really pleased to have this space to share their stories. It’s been a long journey for them both, but there’s so much to celebrate in the work that they’re doing and the way that this community has embraced them and they have adopted us. Please come and talk to both of them at some stage during the night and feel free to buy or commission some work too!’ The man laughed as if he’d made a fantastic joke, and everyone clapped as he gestured towards a couple standing at the front of the room, the man grinning, the woman smiling shyly and looking towards the floor. When the clapping died down the bouncy man continued.

  ‘I’d also like to thank the fabulous Clementine Andrews for agreeing to come along tonight and fitting us into her very busy schedule.’ He clapped and the crowd burst into short round of applause. ‘Clementine is working with us to promote the organisation and to get the message out about art as a form of therapeutic expression and community engagement.’ He gestured to Clementine, and Marlee saw her nod.

  She wondered what work Clementine had been doing for them. She took another sip of her wine and swilled the rich, oaky flavour around her mouth, then realised it wasn’t agreeing with her. A flush of heat made her neck and face prickle. The crowd suddenly felt too close. She needed some air and then for a terrible moment, the figures in the room started spinning and became a blurry, hot streak of light. She grabbed at Ben’s arm to steady herself. He must have seen something in her face that alarmed him, because Marlee registered the grip of his arm slipping tightly around the waist and the other one sliding along her arm. She closed her eyes but heard his urgent whisper.

  ‘Marlee, you look terrible. Let’s get you outside.’

  He propelled her towards the door and she forced herself to walk. The hot prickling sensation seemed to spread, then a wave of cold nausea rolled over her and she wasn’t sure if she was going to make it to the door. The crowd seemed to part, and Ben pulled her outside into the quiet of the street and sat her down on the window ledge. Her stomach was churning.

  He squatted down in front of her and rested his hand across her forehead.

  She closed her eyes for another moment and allowed herself to focus on the cooling touch of his hand.

  ‘You’re white as a ghost,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘And clammy.’

  A minute passed and Marlee’s head began to clear. She tried to breathe deeply to calm her stomach.

  The clip-clip of high heels approaching enticed Marlee to open her eyes. In her peripheral vision, she could see the figure of a small woman approaching. Marlee turned her head to look at the woman over Ben’s shoulder. Her elegant figure was shown off beautifully in a tailored, very expensive-looking grey dress and matching waisted jacket. She sported a shiny, dark chignon and wore huge dark sunglasses. With her string of oversized pearls, the woman reminded Marlee of an older Audrey Hepburn. A second wave of nausea struck as a cold finger of familiarity tapped at her memory. The woman stopped as she reached them and took off her sunglasses and suddenly Marlee knew. Harriet Andrews. Clementine’s mother. Marlee felt herself becoming dizzy again as she registered a look of pure distaste on the woman’s face as she regarded Ben, and then looked back again at Marlee.

  Ben seemed not to notice her. ‘Marlee, you’re not well at all. I’ll drive you home.’ Mrs Andrews was standing directly behind his right shoulder, listening. She watched as Ben took Marlee’s hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

  ‘Um, no, I’ll be fine in a sec,’
said Marlee, wondering why Clementine’s mother was so obviously eavesdropping on their conversation instead of going into the exhibition, or walking on to wherever she was going.

  ‘Hello, Ben. I see you’re busy.’ Mrs Andrews sniffed. She ignored Marlee’s gaze. Ben stood up and turned towards her, surprised, but he didn’t let go of Marlee’s hand.

  ‘Harriet,’ said Ben. ‘Clem didn’t mention you were coming.’

  Mrs Andrews took her time to survey the scene, glancing down and fixing her glare on Marlee’s hand in Ben’s.

  She looked up. ‘Artists for Peace is a client of mine. I provide them with pro-bono services – at your behest, if I recall correctly, Ben – hence, I received the invitation.’

  There was a cool civility between Mrs Andrews and Ben. Marlee wondered how they knew each other, and why they didn’t seem particularly pleased to see each other.

  ‘This is my colleague, Marlee. I’d introduce you properly but she’s unwell and I’m about to drop her home,’ said Ben.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Marlee, pulling her hand out of his. The dizzy spell had passed. She was feeling at a distinct social disadvantage sitting down. She pushed herself up off the ledge. Some sort of bizarre interaction was going on between the two of them. She needed to be at eye level to read it.

  ‘Alright then,’ said Ben. ‘Harriet, this is Marlee Maples. Marlee, this is Harriet Andrews, my… ex-wife,’ said Ben.

  Marlee felt a disorienting slip, as if she’d fallen through a rabbit hole and into an alternate reality. Ben and Harriet Andrews? And now the woman had turned up just as Marlee was playing damsel in distress. Well, there was nothing she could do about it now except be a grown-up.

  ‘We’ve met before actually.’ Marlee extended her hand towards Harriet. ‘Nice to see you again, Mrs Andrews. I’m afraid I came over a bit faint in the middle of speeches. The wine must have been off.’ She said it with a weak laugh. It wasn’t a brilliant joke, admittedly, but neither of them even smiled. Mrs Andrews looked down at the hand Marlee was extending, then looked back up at Marlee, keeping both hands by her sides.

  ‘It’s Ms Andrews, Marleen, not Mrs,’ said Harriet, pointedly using the name Marlee hadn’t used since high school. Then she turned to Ben. ‘And as far as I’m aware, Ben, we are not yet divorced.’ Harriet looked back at Marlee and opened her mouth, then closed it again before walking past them both and opening the door to the bar. Then she turned back, her hand clenched white around the door handle. ‘I thought you donated the wine for this event, Ben. How very careless of you to poison the guests.’

  She walked into the bar and the door slammed shut behind her.

  Marlee dropped her hand and slumped back down on the window ledge. The small burst of energy had sapped her.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Marlee. ‘I didn’t mean it about the wine – obviously. And I’ve, um, met your wife years ago. When I was at school.’

  Ben gave a gentle laugh. ‘It’s fine, Marlee. Don’t worry about it. And please forgive her. She’s not taking our separation very well.’ He sat down on the ledge beside her and sighed. After a moment, he put his hand on top of hers and they sat in silence.

  She wondered what to do. She had the strangest desire to take hold of it and bring it up to her cheek, but she couldn’t. He was just being solicitous. Besides, the idea of holding his hand made her stomach churn again. She had no desire to get involved with him seriously – not because he was newly separated and came with baggage, or even that he was her boss. It was just that she sensed that there was a potent sort of chemistry between them that might be more than she could manage. It made her chest constrict to think about it.

  She glanced sideways at the line of his jaw and his five o’clock stubble, just beginning to show in dappled grey across his upper lip and cheeks. There was something so essentially good about him that she felt like crying.

  ‘I’m just going to grab a cab,’ said Marlee, getting up and letting his hand slip away. ‘I’m probably coming down with the flu. I’ve been a bit off-colour all week.’

  He stood up quickly. ‘Please let me give you a lift, Marlee. You look really pale.’

  ‘You need to stay here with your friends, Ben. You helped organise this. I’m absolutely fine.’ She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. She breathed in deeply, the musky scent of him unbalancing her momentarily. ‘Really. I’ll see you tomorrow. And please say goodbye to Clementine for me. I didn’t realise she was your step-daughter.’

  She turned and walked down the street towards the cab rank, letting out a heavy sigh. He really was the complete package.

  Twelve

  Emma

  Emma picked up her glass of wine and took a large sip. It was her new ritual: one glass every night. She was unsure how it had taken her until she was forty-two to realise that a nightly glass of wine could fundamentally improve her life. Actually, it was no surprise she hadn’t discovered it earlier. Phillip was teetotal, so it had just been easier not to bother with it before. Still, her liver would thank her for all those years of abstinence. It was in top form to cope with the filtering of a single glass of wine each night. Sorry liver, but you’ll just have to get up to speed. You’ve had it easy for far too long. If you were Marlee’s liver, then you might have something to complain about.

  It had been a strange couple of days. She closed her eyes and let the lovely sensation of the wine running through her veins warm her. Maybe she was becoming addicted. Last night, with Clementine, she’d had three glasses followed by some vodka and for the second time in a month, her inhibitions had gone out the window and she’d ended up in a seriously strange situation.

  True to her word, Clementine had picked her up in her bright orange Datsun 120y. She’d had the same car at school twenty-five years ago and even then, it had felt ancient to the other girls.

  ‘Jump in!’ Clementine called, leaning over and throwing open the door when she picked her up from the cottage. Emma had already chewed her thumbnail down to the quick, waiting for Clementine to arrive. She’d changed outfits three times and her tiny bedroom resembled a junk shop by the time 9 p.m. rolled around. Emma was just beginning to look longingly at her rabbit pyjamas when she’d heard a horn tooting outside.

  She walked to the car, going over the news articles in her head about Clementine’s career and the art world in general. She’d spent ages googling ‘Clementine Andrews’ and ‘modern art’ and reading the stories behind her bodies of work. She now knew quite a bit more about art than she had this morning – which had been pretty non-existent, in spite of the original artworks by notable Australians that lined the halls and decorated the offices of Denham House. She read up on John Olsen, Brett Whiteley, Margaret Olley – vaguely familiar names that topped her internet searches. She thought she might be able to discuss different styles of painting if the conversation didn’t get too in depth. But she was nervous she’d get it wrong. Gouache, impasto, monochrome. She recited the words and their meanings in her head.

  But Clementine hadn’t wanted to talk about painting. Or about herself. Over a bottle of wine, she had wanted to know what Emma had been doing since high school. Emma found herself telling her about Phillip and his affair, and Clementine reached across the table at the pub and held her hand while she cried, declaring Phillip to be a ‘complete and utter wanker.’ There was a band playing in the pub – loud 80s music. Clementine and Emma danced in the dark, smoky corner, thrilled when they both remembered the moves their senior year had made up to the song ‘Eagle Rock’. They swayed and jumped around, losing touch with their surroundings as the alcohol and darkness and pounding music roused in Emma a yearning for her girlhood.

  When the band finished, the pub suddenly seemed empty and sad. Clementine promised she was fine to drive, and in the moonlit carpark, the top of Mount Wellington peaked above the city streets.

  ‘Let’s drive up there,’ said Clementine.

  She sounded wistful and Emma dismissed her own niggling doubt. She was hangi
ng out with Clementine Andrews after all – one of the quirky, cool kids. They drove through the quiet outer suburbs in silence. At the base of the mountain, the street lights petered out and gave way to an inky blackness, barely breached by the weak headlights of Clementine’s little car. The dark winding road ascended gently at first, but then the climb became steeper and stretched on much further than Emma remembered from her last visit to the mountain, years and years ago. She took no comfort from the tiny guide posts that stood like white toothpicks, warning drivers away from the perilous drop at the road’s edge. Emma gripped her seat in silence as Clementine turned the steering wheel of the little car in endless fluid motions, seemingly unconcerned.

  As they rose higher, the shadows of the dense forest gave way to shrubs, clinging to boulders in the blackness like gloomy ghosts. The bends in the road became sharper and more frequent but Clementine barely slowed down and Emma felt a tight, sick terror rising inside her. Finally, rectangular shadows loomed in front of them – shelters announcing their arrival at the summit. In the deserted carpark they pulled up near the lookout, the lights of Hobart twinkling ahead and to their left. To their right there was only blackness.

  Emma’s heart was still pounding as Clementine turned off the engine. They sat in darkness and Emma sent up a silent prayer of thanks that they hadn’t tumbled off the mountain’s edge.

  ‘Well, that was fun,’ said Clementine eventually, fumbling in her bag. The interior lights of the car weren’t working and Clementine brought out her mobile phone and turned on the torch. She pointed it towards the back seat, then reached over and pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka.

  Emma let go of her grip on the seat and forced herself to breathe.

  Clementine unscrewed the bottle cap and handed it across. Emma took it, staring at the bottle in a kind of glazed wonder, before braving a swig.